More’s the pity.
Jerome finished his drink and left the glass on an end table. “I’ll consider it, but meanwhile, I could use a little blunt, Papa, and some inquiries about a diplomatic post wouldn’t go amiss.”
Beardsley mentally gave Jerome credit for tenacity. He wrote out a bank draft for a few pounds and passed it over.
“Don’t tell your mother.”
Jerome folded the paper into an inner pocket. “How is Mama?”
“Quietly desperate to get Diana launched. She will throw your sister at Tavistock and keep Hera in reserve. Beautiful needlepoint and a good soprano are about all Diana has to recommend her.”
“I’ll put in a word for Di at my clubs. She’s pretty, sensible, and wellborn. She and Fremont share a love of books, and Westerly has an ear for music.”
“You might pass that along to your mother when next you join us for a meal.”
“Sunday,” Jerome said, pulling on his gloves. “I can most definitely be on hand for the Sunday roast. And thank you, Papa, for the blunt and for the advice. I will consider all you’ve said.”
Having been given a few pounds, Jerome was doubtless considering which bills to pay off first, or if he had to pay any of them in the immediate term.
Ah, youth. “My regards to Tavistock—and to Jeanette.”
Jerome bowed his farewell, while Beardsley wondered if perhaps he himself ought to call on Jeanette. He was roused from his musings by the luncheon bell, and not for anything would Lord Beardsley Vincent insult his wife by coming late to her table.
Chapter Eleven
“Mr. Sycamore Dorning, my lady.” Peem stepped aside to permit Jeanette’s guest entry into the breakfast parlor.
Sycamore, resplendent in riding attire, sauntered into the room. “My lady, the beauty of the dawn pales beside the wonder of thy fair countenance. Are those apple tarts?”
“Yes,” Jeanette said, “and if you’re to enjoy them, you’d best be about it. If Trevor brings any of his fellow locusts home with him from their morning hack, those tarts will be but a memory. Peem, that will be all.”
Peem withdrew after casting Sycamore a dubious glance.
Sycamore filled a plate at the sideboard, helping himself to toast, ham, and two apple tarts. “How does this day find you?” he asked, taking the place at Jeanette’s right hand. “Are you well?”
He was asking about her bodily functions, though not as Jeanette’s husband had asked. The late marquess had interrogated rather than inquired: Why haven’t you conceived? Don’t you want to conceive, Jeanette? You have a brother, and you have male cousins. Is there some breeding defect in the Goddard line that your father failed to disclose? Be honest with me, or it will go hard for you.
“I am quite well,” Jeanette said, setting the teapot by his plate. “My indisposition is painful, but generally brief. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Sycamore poured himself a cup of tea. “I missed you, and I would be a sorry sort of swain if I allowed you to languish for more than three days without offering you the pleasure of my company.”
Why must he look so lovely, all hale and masculine, exuding vitality and smiling so devilishly? “I cannot tell if you are teasing or in earnest. You aren’t having any eggs?”
He sipped his tea, managing to make even that an exercise in elegance. “I am in complete earnest. If I had my way… Well, we can discuss that later. The omelet savors of mushrooms, which do not agree with me, and there looks to be hardly enough for a decent serving for one.”
“That omelet is just for me. Trevor feels as you do about mushrooms. The French half of me says you are both ridiculous. When his lordship returns from the park, the kitchen will send up a horse-trough-sized dish of eggs, cheese, cream, chives, and I know not what else. Trevor and his friends do unto the omelet as they do to the apple tarts.”
“And the ham, toast, currant buns, and any other comestibles left in plain sight. Will you drive out to Richmond with me today? Please say you will.”
Jeanette was torn between the part of her that distrusted all spontaneity and the part of her that hadn’t been on a picnic in far too long.
“This is more of your swaining?”
“This is an excuse to spend hours in the company of a woman I esteem greatly. If the prospect of my exclusive company is not inducement enough for you to accompany me, then please join me so I can share with you some information relating to your brother.”
Jeanette pushed aside half of her serving of eggs. “Is Rye well?”
“Obnoxiously so. We enjoyed a companionable meal on Sunday, and I have much to tell you, none of it bad. He is concerned for you, but keeping his distance lest his past reflect poorly on you.”
“I know. The war is over, but I gather some affronted fellow officer could challenge him over any imagined slight simply for a chance to blow Rye’s brains out.”
That Rye had dined with Sycamore was curious indeed, and even a little encouraging.
“What exactly did Sir Orion do to put himself beyond the pale? I did not inquire in the interests of living to see my next sunrise.”
“Spied for the French, supposedly. All Rye will say is that things were not what they seemed, and his conscience is clear. I love my brother, and I don’t particularly care if he did warn a village that Wellington’s troops approached. The army was happy to use his language skills and knowledge of French culture. They had to know making war on Mama’s homeland was
